


No Matter How the Stars Align (They Make Me Think of You)

by silentsonata



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Acting, Ancient Greece, Aziraphale and Crowley Have Their Picnic (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Good Omens Big Bang, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Minor Character Death, Museums, Mutual Pining, P I C N I C - I repeat - PICNIC, Podfic Available, Poetry, Prehistoric, References to Hamlet, Secrets, Shakespearean Sonnets, Slow Burn, Songwriting, dusting of angst as light as a layer of icing sugar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:55:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22284448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsonata/pseuds/silentsonata
Summary: Beneath starlight that has travelled light years just to illuminate their faces, Aziraphale and Crowley’s paths drift closer and closer until they are nearly indistinguishable. They converge, reach a singularity, and create another world – an Eden where love roams free and apples are freely taken from trees.A series of vignettes which tell the story of an angel, a demon, and the stars that witness how they fall in love.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) & Freddie Mercury, The Bentley & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 68
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Vivant, Ament, Luceant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is Latin for: "May They Live, May They Love, May They Shine."

**Genesis 1:3**

**__** _And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light._

A Hellenistic statue of Apollo, regal and imposing despite its missing limbs. Crowley remembered when he’d seen that same statue, in full colour and glory, in the temple of Delphi. It had been part of the statued royal guard which had lined the path to the high priestess. The idol’s long, wavy hair had been crimson in the light that filtered through the smoke, almost moving although set in stone. And those eyes, gazing up into the stars, at some far-off galaxy, had been yellow. Like honey, like the Corinthian sun. By 2003 CE, it had lost its vibrance to the cruel passage of time. He didn’t understand why it was still loved.

Crowley took great pleasure in visiting museums. He preferred to explore museums before they opened on Monday mornings and after closing on Friday nights. He considered it very demonic of himself to not pay an entrance fee. Crowley usually parked the Bentley at the gates, between two trees on the street, to cause maximum mischief. A mop, a janitor’s outfit, and a few miracles later, he was in.

Museums were full of things that held promises of worlds that could have been, lives that once were lived, and dreams that could have been realised. He felt like he belonged amongst the objects on display, locked up behind glass cabinet walls like something in a freakshow, a symbol of a fallen world. A frozen moment. He imagined the paint on the statue being chipped off and washed away as the years went on, stripping the deity of vibrance. 

Crowley knew the shifting sands of time had done the same to him, sanding away his sense of what a demon could do and feel, trying to smother the fire that fuelled him. Nevertheless, he burned brighter than ever before through the sandstorms. He had found someone worth burning for.

As Crowley observed the relics of long-gone civilisations before him, dragging his mop bucket along, he reached the same conclusion that he had reached so many times already. All empires were destined to fall. Impermanence was the only consistent factor in human civilisation, no matter how great, successful, or advanced.

The empire of Crowley’s love stretched from Earth to Alpha Centauri, and far beyond, always growing, chasing the fringes of the expanding universe. Would God make an exception for this empire, for the microcosm that Aziraphale and Crowley had constructed for themselves? Would She be so kind?

The God that Crowley knew was not kind. But She was not cruel either. For him, She existed in liminal thresholds, on sharpened edges of blades primed for war and in cracks in walls which the shadows whispers could pass through. She was in the empty air between him and anything he saw, always present, yet never truly seen; the static in radios, something heard but never understood.

However, Crowley would cast off his janitorial disguise and make exceptions for Aziraphale, who preferred going out on Wednesday afternoons, probably because they were more likely to encounter groups of school children on an excursion. By some miracle (only 33.4% angelic, but Crowley would never hear the end of it if Aziraphale discovered that), every student found themselves enamoured with what they were learning.

Perhaps it was because the guide introduced each exhibit to them with more passion that she herself knew she had, suddenly reminded of the teacher that had helped her fall in love with history. Perhaps it was because each child found something that resonated within the glass, because thistime, unlike so many times before and after, they were seeing, not just looking. Perhaps it was the temptation of human curiosity. Perhaps it was all three of these things.

Crowley was certain, at least, of one thing. That he would do whatever it took to keep Aziraphale smiling like that, eyes crinkling at the edges like wrapping paper peeling off the perfect present.

There was one part of the British Museum, however, that struck a chord with everyone who saw it, with or without the intervention of certain celestial beings. It was by no means as grandiose as the massive dinosaur skeletons propped up in the next room, intimidating and dynamic. Nor was it as visually stunning as the Egyptian sarcophagi in the previous room, intricately decorated with carvings and colours.

It was an engraving, a perfectly-preserved tablet in an unknown language that had always been on display. Curators never even thought of taking it into the storeroom; the biggest move it had ever experienced was from the basement to the upper floor. It had simply appeared on the steps of the British Museum one day, next to a very compelling note bidding the curators to take it in. All efforts at carbon dating it had failed ( _how could they carbon date it_ , Crowley thought, _when it hadn’t even come from Earth?_ ), and there was no shortage of contemporary theories as to what it was about and who had written it.

 _A record of hunting,_ some historians suggested.

 _Documentation of rituals,_ archeologists guessed.

 _bloody aliens, im telling y’all_ ,proposed Reddit user TightTrousersIncognitoBrowsers. This was Crowley’s favourite theory by far.

But the engraving, as modest as it was in its dim lighting, was a clarion call to some primal part of humanity. Children and adults alike would often find themselves transfixed by it, as if they had been turned into the very stone that comprised the tablet. One by one, however, the gnawing sensation that they were looking at something not meant for their eyes made each of them tear gazes away, faces flushing slightly in embarrassment.

Crowley was the only one who seemed to be free from discomfort when he looked at the tablet. Looking at him, mop in hand, still as the stone, an observer would think that time had frozen. Not even the yellowish lights flickered.

Strange feelings stirred in Crowley’s heart, as if he had just downed a sour cocktail of saudade, garnished with the bitter realisation that over six thousand years had passed. His throat burned. Crowley wondered if he bore the weight of all those years well.

• • • • •

 _ **The Tablet**_  
**_(Unknown Origin and Composition)_**

 _The waters only now begin to flow,_  
_Still, grass is being planted on the plains._  
_And I gaze up at you from far below,_  
_I bury pains as you bury remains._

Crawly slipped into Aziraphale’s peripheral vision, just next to his left wing, smirking. “Still stuck on dinosaur bone duty?”

“I will have nothing of your wiles and temptations today.” Aziraphale stuck his shovel into the ground and heaved, grunting softly .

“Aw, come on. Just being nice, s’all.”

“That’s what you say every day! Am I supposed to believe you?”

Crawly laughed. “S’the general idea.” He kicked up a little bit of dry earth and watched as the wind carried it away. The earth was still bare; the grass was being planted in the north, and they were in the southern deserts, near where Eden once was.

“Have you just come to gloat?” Aziraphale huffed, cheeks apple red, a trickle of sweat running down his forehead, “Don’t you have better things to do? I can’t be seen talking to you!”

“But you can be seen, uh, refuting my temptations, can’t you?” Crawly chose to interpret the following silence as tacit agreement. “’Sides, why don’t you just miracle the bones into the ground? Rare to see an angel with a shovel. Not very… dignified, shall we say?”

“This manual labour is supposed to teach us discipline. Not that _you’d_ know a lot about that.” Aziraphale turned his nose up.

“Oh, _really_? Rumour has it that it’s for one of the Almighty’s jokes.”

“She would never make a joke out of Creation!” Crawly thought about the blueprint for an animal called the “platypus” and decided not to tell Aziraphale.

“Also, all the angels finished burying about two minutes after you guys arrived, I think. M’afraid you were too engrossed in your, uh, work to notice.” Crawly waved his hand at the pit Aziraphale had dug, which was quite obviously not big enough to contain the vast majority of the bones he’d been allocated. “So, just to confirm, you’re sure about that manual labour thing?”

Aziraphale flushed red, wings giving a subtle flap of indignance. “Yes, I’m sure, just, just go away now! Stop harassing me!”

“Whatever you say, Aziraphale.” Crawly’s voice wavered. He hoped the angel wouldn’t notice. Aziraphale turned, raised his shovel again, and froze in his tracks.

“How do _you_ know my name?” He accused, whipping around, only to find only shifting sands where Crawly had been.

Maybe, one day, Crawly would tell Aziraphale that it was because he’d heard him muttering encouraging things to himself. His favorite by far was “Come on, Aziraphale, you’ve got to dig deep!”.

 _Your smile, it renders useless this bright sun;_  
_Its light and life and all-consuming love._  
_But I, by sullied virtues overrun,_  
_Might hold you tight, then leave a strangled dove._

Crawly was back the next day, like Aziraphale expected, his behaviour the same as usual, though more distant. Aziraphale would occasionally catch him gazing in his direction. More than that. Observing, on the brink of analysing. Yet this analysis did not send shivers down his spine. Crawly did not seem to scrutinise, seeking errors and weaknesses to exploit. His gaze was not that of a predator preparing to strike. There was something in his eyes reminiscent of a stargazer, pining after at untouchable beauty.

 _Serves him right_ , said some petty, self-righteous part of Aziraphale. _He should know the power and splendour of Heaven and fear it._

Another part of Aziraphale pitied him. Crawly might never feel the warmth of love again. Did the love in demons’ bones evaporate in those pools of sulphur?

But he had a task to do and no time to even think about anything, much less a demon. Aziraphale did his best to think of nothing but earth, the angle of the shovel, of discipline, and his muscles straining. 

He didn’t hear the subtle snaps of Crawly’s fingers as the pit deepened.

_If once, you stopped your work to look at me,_  
_I’d choose to freeze that moment, cold in time._  
_I never needed an eternity,_  
_For you to melt this tungsten heart of mine._

The deed was done. The bones buried, some impossibly deep in the earth for a single angel’s work. Aziraphale noted how Crawly seemed to be biting back a grin. He wondered if he should thank him. He decided against it.

“So…” Aziraphale began, restraining a nervous chuckle.

“I’ll be seeing you around?”

“Heavens, no!” He did his best to sound affronted. Then, he paused. “Well, only if I’ve been assigned to stop your devilish plans.”

“Oh, trust me, Angel, there’ll be plenty more of those.” Crawly didn’t let Aziraphale get a word in as he turned around and said goodbye, walking into the distance. “See you.”

The grasses, as they grew to blanket the land, had finally kissed the edge of the southern deserts. Aziraphale didn’t know whether or not he was glad that he didn’t have to figure out how to bid him farewell.

He watched as Crawly became a little spot in the distance, black wings fanned out, primed to take off. But Crawly never ascended. Aziraphale blinked, and that little spot disappeared off the horizon as if it had never been there in the first place.

“Goodbye, Crawly,” he muttered to himself, spread his own wings, and took flight.

 _Though I remember each and every star,_  
_Not one is quite as brilliant in the way you are._

A few days later, a foreign object entered the Earth’s atmosphere. A fragment of a star cluster 40,000 light-years away, seen in the night sky as part of the Libra constellation. One of Crawly’s best works.

Crawly collected what was left of the meteorite, a relic from a time long gone, a version of himself long dead. He closed his eyes and pushed all of his forbidden love into it, already knowing his actions to be fruitless. Sooner or later, the yearning would rear its ugly head again, multiplied in size and intensity like some undying monster from Hell. He watched as the shapes carved into the rock undulated and slithered around like snakes. 

As the snakes resolved into letters in a language of Crawly’s own, there were two versions of Crawly in that tablet, both of which he needed to hide. The Archangel. The snake that had tempted others to bite, then bitten his own tail, poisoned by affection. For almost six thousand years, the tablet lay buried, hidden, like dinosaur bones and illicit feelings.

In 1862 CE, he decided it was time to dig it up and let go, before the paleontologists discovered it (even if they’d never discover the joke).

• • • • •

Crowley, full of love and awe and just a little bit of desperation, had impressed a feeling onto that tablet – bared for all to see, free of the layers of nuance of communication, conveyed straight from one heart to another.

Not everyone read it as a sonnet. Some people heard celestial harmonies which resonated with the very core of their soul. Others felt an embrace that warmed them from head to toe. Crowley didn’t know very much about love languages. As far as he was concerned, he loved Aziraphale in every possible language. Even Welsh. 

And Aziraphale loved humanity. It had been in his eyes the day they’d stood out on the stone wall and looked out on the sword that Aziraphale had given away. It had been in the quiver of his lips as he heard the first cries of the baby born in a lonely manger in Bethlehem. It had been in the way his tears were only held back by a gossamer thread when he knelt by the sick and suffering. 

For all Crowley cared, they could run away together, to some far-off galaxy, where the shockwaves from the end of the world couldn’t reach them. But Aziraphale would have no humans to come back to, no-one with whom to share his interests, no-one to whom he could truly relate without worrying about the consequences. More than anything else, Crowley wanted Aziraphale to feel like he belonged.

And so it was, at four o’clock in the morning, standing in his janitor uniform before a tablet which he had written thousands of years prior, that Crowley made up his mind. When the time came, he needed to stop Armageddon. 


	2. The Last Star Crawly Ever Hung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To err, to trip and fall on the ground, is to be human. But it is also to dare, to rise, and then to dream of reaching the heavens.
> 
> This is how a human teaches Crawly and Aziraphale to turn falling into flight.

**The Orphic Hymn to Asclepius (No. 66)**

_Asclepius, healer of all, master physician,_  
_You charm the many pains, misery, and disease of man,_  
_Soothing, doughty one, come bring back health,_  
_And end my maladies and the strident certainty of death._  
_Oh life-giving God, averter of ills, blessed one!_

It remains a little-known fact that Asclepius had a partner in his work. Though commonly known by the Ancient Greeks as the God of Healing or the physician of the gods, he was, in fact, completely human. His patients often found themselves scratching their heads in confusion after they had been restored to health, saying that they surely had seen a red-haired healer with Asclepius. However, every one of their inquiries led to a dead end, and none of them were ever able to find out who they had seen. It was as if a spell had been put on them so that they would forget the most crucial details about Asclepius’ companion. They were only ever able to remember a hazy outline, like what they were thinking of was as elusive as the horizon.

Many of them simply assumed that they had seen the human form of Apollo, the god of medicine. Others said that it was the Angel of Healing they’d seen. This latter group was right about everything except the “Angel” part.

Crawly had been an angel once, the Archangel of Healing, even, but now he supposed that he was still the Demon of Healing. The truth about the patients’ blurry memories was that Crawly didn’t want to be remembered, didn’t want the same glory that Asclepius had. He felt more comfortable in the shadows, not even blinking, his ultimate goal a secret to everyone but himself.

Their odd friendship begins with Crawly watching from afar, beneath an olive tree, at the child Asclepius, running amongst the centaurs, stumbling and falling, in stark contrast to the steady-footed foals with him. The grove is quiet. The small spring within it glints in the sunlight, more splendid than amber. Water glides off the rocks into a small stream, tinkling like the singing of nymphs. The shade offers a welcome respite from the burning sun. The sweet scent of carnations wafts towards Crawly, and he lets a gentle smile spread over his face.

Those carnations’ soothing smell would never quite leave Asclepius’ life, floating drowsily back to his mind at night like a lullaby carried on the breeze. Perhaps it was a remedy to fill the space of the mother he never knew.

Asclepius’ medical prowess is often attributed to Chiron, the wisest of the centaurs. But if it had not been for some conveniently placed yarrow clusters here and coincidental accidents there, tailored for him to practise his skills, Asclepius would have been a regular boy, a little smarter than most others. One might even say that there had been divine intervention.

• • • • •

Asclepius was a young man when he first met Crawly. By then, he had given up the idylls of the woods of the centaurs, exchanging them for the chaos of paved roads and the bustle of crowds in the city of Epidaurus. His name was uttered by foreign tongues in places as far off as Egypt, and the routes taken by his patients wove a complex tapestry across land and sea.

Crawly had always been endlessly fascinated by the way humans grew and changed over time and Asclepius was no exception. When Asclepius approached his second year working in the temple of healing, Crawly could no longer bear just watching from the sidelines. The young man was certainly capable of caring for people, but plants were another matter entirely.

He sniffed in distaste as he passed through the herb garden in front of the wooden temple. Crawly even felt sorry for the plants, with their slouching stems and drooping leaves. Their vibrant colours had faded noticeably over the past two years. In the midday sun, the stone path was warm under his feet. The temple door was ajar, and Crawly slipped through the gap in search of Asclepius. He didn’t have to look far. Asclepius was standing at a table just around the corner, crushing fresh leaves with a mortar and pestle.

“So,” Crawly said, leaning against the wall of the humble establishment, “Sure you’re not looking for an assistant?” The timber gently creaked under his weight.

“Sir, thank you, but as I have told you before, I have no need of help.”

“Oh, come on. S’what every healer _needs!_ You know, an apprentice to make poultices or boil syrup or, um, crush seeds into powder?” Crawly gestured towards the shelves and tables, filled with a plethora of bottles, jars, and surgical instruments. Then, he focused on the window, through which he could see the garden outside the wooden hut. “And the plants! You’re letting potential remedies wither away!”

“Sir, I barely know who you are. Either way, everything is perfectly fine and under control.” _Sure it is_ , Crawly thought. _Half those plants look as alive as the temple of Apollo down the road, and that’s made of stone._

“M’sure you’d appreciate the help.”

“I’m sorry, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I have patients in sick beds to attend to.”

Crawly sniffed as nonchalantly as he could manage, rejected for the sixth time in two days. _Is this how you treat me after I practically raised you for twenty-one years?_

“Your loss.” He turned his heel and swaggered out of the clinic.

Only two hours later, when the sun had begun its downward descent from high noon, someone ran into his clinic. Asclepius groaned aloud. He barely had the chance to start appreciating the quiet.

“Quick,” the definitively-not-Crawly’s voice urged, “Asclepius, we really need your help.”

“I’m a bit busy now,” Asclepius sighed, relieved that it, at least, wasn’t the red-headed terror that had tormented him for the past 48 hours. “I’ll be with you soon.” He’d never thought that someone’s absence could be so comforting, especially since he’d only recently gotten used to the city, where people were pushed against each other like the very city walls were closing in on them.

“Someone’s been bitten by a snake!” A few moments passed before he realised the true weight of these words. People bitten by snakes rarely survived. Asclepius almost knocked over the mortar and pestle on the table as he turned around, coming close to giving himself whiplash.

“They’ve _what?_ ”

There was no time to delay. He arranged for the victim to be brought into the infirmary and prepared another bed. No-one had seen the snake. There was hope for his patient yet. As the dry thumps of a group’s footsteps on the path grew louder, Asclepius busied himself with arranging the medicines and surgical instruments he thought necessary. Despite the odds being stacked against him, he wouldn’t let this person die if he could help it.

The victim was a strongly-built young man of nineteen years, merely two years younger than Asclepius himself. Asclepius shuddered at the idea that, if the stars were aligned slightly differently, he himself could have been the one lying on the bed. He never liked treating snake bites. They reminded him of a pair of yellow eyes watching from the shadows, which vanished into the darkness as soon as he turned to look at them.

The small escort that had formed for the victim watched in nervous silence as Asclepius assembled little clay bowls of rue, tannin, myrrh and curdled milk on a tray and took it to the bed. The bite was halfway up the patient’s right calf, and tears slipped from the boy’s eyes as gasped prayers to Apollo tumbled out of his mouth. Asclepius muttered soothing words, trying to still the boy as he applied each of his treatments.

Muffled voices could be heard at the door to his clinic. Someone was being denied entry.

“Oh, bugger it all,” Crawly’s voice came, cutting through the tension in the infirmary. “You couldn’t stop me if you tried.” The head of long, loose red curls bursting through the door was the first thing Asclepius saw when he looked up, having convinced the patient to drink a hemlock-based sedative to still his movement and the propagation of venom through his system. He fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“Crawly, this is neither the time nor place for your intrusions.” Crawly, nevertheless, forced the group of spectators aside and strutted up to Asclepius, eyeing the patient.

“Well, can’t really help it, can I? Not if you want the poor boy to live. Yeah, ‘specially if what you’re doing is _that_. You’re on the money with the hemlock, though, gotta keep ‘em still.”

“I’m on the what?”

“S’okay, forget it. Seems to me you need all the help you can get. We need a stick and bandages.” When Asclepius made no move to follow his command, Crawly raised an impatient, even mocking, eyebrow. “Come on. Chop chop.”

Asclepius swallowed his pride like bitter medicine and provided Crawly with what he needed. He watched in a mix of wonder and confusion as Crawly bandaged the bite site tightly.

“Look,” Crawly said as he worked, not looking up, “The tighter this is, the more the blood vessels are compressed. That means the potential venom in his blood will flow slower to his vital organs. Got it?” He proceeded to bandage all of the bitten leg except for the toes, asserting the importance of wrapping the limb tightly all the while.

Crawly’s hands seemed to move of their own accord, with no wasted movement in his swift fingers. His voice reminded Asclepius of his lessons learnt in fields punctuated with the colours of pink carnations. With a delicate touch, Crawly smeared the green rue paste onto the bandages to mark the site of the wound.

“S’pose that’s enough to remind us where it is. You know how to splint his leg, right?” Asclepius gave a nod of tacit agreement. “Good, get to it then.”

As Asclepius made the splint from a plank of wood, Crawly pushed their little audience out of the clinic, grumbling all the while.

“I’m done,” Asclepius declared, feeling as though he had to reassert his skill as a healer. “Well?”

“Well, what? No _‘thank you, Crawly, you just saved someone’s life_ ’?” Crawly hissed mockingly.

Asclepius flushed red like his face had suddenly decided to take inspiration from the red poppies in his garden. “No, I… I, I am _very_ grateful for your help. But I hope you will forgive my confusion at your unexpected entrance. And your creative treatment of the patient. It’s all… very disconcerting.”

Crawly huffed. “M’getting soft.” He took a seat by the bite victim’s bedside, sweeping his hand towards the other side to indicate that Asclepius should do the same. “Sorry. Had a bit of, uh, experience with snake bites. And other things, of course. But healing practices for this aren’t exactly accurate or, uh, effective, don’t you think?”

“Could you elaborate?” Asclepius sat back and listened as Crawly explained that the cures of the time were absolute _rubbish_. There was only so much that those superficial remedies could do. The patient had to be kept still, and since no-one had seen the snake, the victim should be monitored for a few days in case his condition worsened. Whether the patient had been bitten by a venomous snake or not, this method at least should increase their chances of survival.

A slow smile spread over Asclepius’ face as Crawly finished. “I’ve learnt a lot today. Thank you.”

“Sure hope no-one else has to be bitten for you to recap today’s lesson,” Crawly said, grinning. He decided that convincing the snake to bite the boy today had been worth it. Perhaps he’d gotten into Asclepius’ good books now. Not that he was looking for validation after twenty-one years.

“Would it be rude of me to ask you to come back?”

“Huh?”

“After your, er, stunt today, you’ve made me realise that I was wrong, that I _do_ need the help after all. But it seems you’re a bit too qualified to be an apprentice. Would it be rude of me to ask, after everything, for you to be my partner?”

“Sorry, could you repeat that?” Crawly smirked, “I didn’t quite hear the part where you apologised.”

Asclepius laughed. “Yes, yes, I admit it, I was wrong for doubting you. Thank you.” He looked up, hope in his eyes. “So?”

“I’ll think about it.” Asclepius guessed that this, coming from Crawly, was as good as a ‘yes’.

• • • • •

Aziraphale was waiting patiently at the theatre of Epidaurus. Crawly was a little over an hour late. He occupied himself by thinking of the festival of Dionysus, which was going to happen soon, contemplating whether or not he should go. Aziraphale thought that the humans were rather smart, really, to have given themselves a god like that so that they had an excuse to revel and drink. He wouldn’t have minded having something like that in Heaven. Not a god, of course – a festival.

It would be lovely to have a party in Heaven, Aziraphale thought. Wine, fruit, maybe even a smile or two for once. He couldn’t even imagine Michael smiling. All Gabriel ever gave him was a mocking smirk. What Aziraphale would give to hear sounds of joy filling up the all-too-empty halls. He smiled at the thought of the shushes aimed at Gabriel, the main offender, laughing too loudly, too deeply, too happily for an angel. But then he thought of them all laughing raucously, far too engrossed in their enjoyment to care about what unspoken rules they were breaking.

When Crawly finally arrived, face practically glowing with triumph, Aziraphale glared at him with as much dislike he could muster. Which, to be honest, was not very much.

“You’re late,” Aziraphale all but pouted, “And _you_ were the one who suggested this meeting!”

“Right, sorry, sorry,” Crawly put his hands up in mock surrender, “There was a snake bite. Had to go out of my way for a little demonic miracle.” Aziraphale gasped. “No,” Crawly drew out, rolling his eyes, “Nobody died. Had to save the poor bloke.”

Aziraphale’s eyes softened into a gentle smile. “Oh, that’s very–”

“Don’t. Say. It.”

“No need to be so rude,” Aziraphale huffed, “Just trying to be nice. If you called me here to argue, then you’re wasting both our time.”

“Aw, come on, Angel, I promise I have something important to say.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

Crawly’s anecdote began with “So, there’s this guy I know called Asclepius” and ended with “How about it? I get what I want and you get to do all the good _deeds_ you want.”

“I’d be helping you to achieve your demonic goals!”

“I’m only helping him out with medicine. Killing time, you know.”

“And no doubt a few of his patients!”

“Sacrifices must be made,” Crawly deadpanned, trying not to laugh at how Aziraphale’s chest swelled with indignation.

“Outrageous,” Aziraphale spluttered, the joke going right over his head, “As if I would _collude_ with evil! In fact, I should go bless this fellow – Asclepius, right? – and his temple tomorrow.”

“See you there, then.” Crawly laughed, and Aziraphale joined in. The joy abruptly drained from the angel’s face when the words sank in.

And so the three of them carried on, and patients came and went. Not all of them survived, but that was the reality of being a healer. You had to come to terms with the fact that you could only hold the door shut against Death for so long. He let himself into the clinic every sunrise and stayed there until sunset, giving advice and treating patients. Though Asclepius took on disciples and built more temples of healing, as humble as the first, he remained the only one Crawly never tired of. For the first time in aeons, Crawly found himself wanting the best for someone that wasn’t himself.

He noticed himself smiling more often, and becoming more hospitable to the clients he received. Nowadays, the only people he snarled, or even hissed at, were Aziraphale and Asclepius. But either they had developed a resistance to his venomous comments or he had grown soft, for even he realised that his insults had lost their bite and drew no blood.

Occasionally, a wicker basket full of medical supplies would show up at the clinic door in the morning, miraculously tailored to restock whatever they were running low on. Asclepius took to claiming they came from a ‘well-wishing benefactor’.

Crawly preferred ‘Aziraphale’.

Unbeknownst to Crawly, Asclepius had gotten to know Aziraphale. They had met in Athens, at the festival of Dionysus, and had taken the same wagon back to Epidaurus. They met up for regular drinks together, and Aziraphale would often listen with a doting expression as Asclepius recounted his adventures with Crawly.

He told of Crawly, who never failed to denounce most of the methods of the day, teaching him new techniques instead. Even though he didn’t understand the logic behind them, Asclepius could never fault the increased number of successful treatments. He shared endearing tales about Crawly, who tended to the plants in the garden like his own children, whom Asclepius had never seen look at anyone (or anything, for that matter) with such tenderness. That’s, of course, when he thought no-one was watching. Crawly, who never seemed to age – what was his secret?

So, Aziraphale supposed, it wasn’t really _his_ fault that he’d gotten so attached to Asclepius. He was always going out of his way to help people, always speaking the best of people, even Crawly. How could anyone not love him?

On Asclepius’ thirtieth birthday, which marked nine years of his association with Crawly, the wicker basket that appeared before his clinic contained only one thing. A bottle of thick, golden liquid.

“Oil?” Asclepius puzzled as he held the glass container up to the light.

“Angel blood,” Crawly hissed, “What the hell is Aziraphale thinking?”

“What?”

“Oh, um, think I recognise that. Gorgon blood. From the, um, right side of the Gorgon, y’know? Brings a dead person back to life.” These facts were, of course, false as far as the Gorgons went, but Crawly hadn’t made up what angel blood could do. It could be dangerous, placed in the wrong hands. Even more dangerous in his hands – it would burn right through him. Already, its presence here violated natural order.

Asclepius’ eyes practically glowed with wonder. “But that’s… that's the stuff of legend. You’re fooling around with me, aren’t you?”

“Want me to prove it?” Crawly made sure to keep his distance from Asclepius as he marched him over to a withered weed, dead thanks to Crawly’s own gardening efforts. “Put a little on that weed.”

Asclepius poured straight from the bottle when he opened it: one drop, two, then he delicately placed the stopper back into the opening. Slowly but surely, the weed was revived, a rich green seeping back into its leaves, replacing the dry khaki colour it had become. Asclepius’ gasp almost sounded exaggerated. The abilities of Gorgon blood, as it was known to the Greeks, at least, never ceased to astonish Asclepius each time he used it. It gained him a reputation for being skilled enough to raise the dead.

Yet, as all things must, Crawly’s journey with Asclepius came to an end.

It was malaria, of all things, that took down the great healer in his forty-sixth year of life. One of his patients had been a vector for infection, and though Asclepius had healed, he had fallen to the disease he cured in his patient with the last few drops of “Gorgon” blood that he had. Crawly wanted to scream out in rage, wanted to make someone suffer for bringing harm where it was not due. But he didn’t. For Asclepius’ sake. Crawly couldn’t stop thinking about how unfair it all was. Asclepius didn’t deserve this, no, he deserved to die in the glory of battle, or peacefully in old age. Not like this. Not fighting a losing battle against disease, which he had fought against his whole life. As Asclepius’ fever and nausea worsened, Crawly could only watch as the determined man became a husk of who he was, hollowed out by illness.

It was messy. Crawly had to clean Asclepius over and over, a ritual he himself repeated every day even though he knew it was futile. He thought that Asclepius, at the very least, deserved even the slightest comfort. Not even a miracle could stop his eyelids drooping shut. It was at those times that, under Aziraphale’s watchful eye, they were blessed with sweet dreams and fulfilling rest.

After all, no rule said that a demon and human couldn’t have the same guardian angel.

Yet Asclepius’ eyes never lost their fire, their hope for the future. Even as he struggled, he told Crawly to keep away. Crawly, unwillingly, had to miracle Asclepius into submission so that he could accompany and tend to him.

“Crawly,” Asclepius coughed out, lying on his own sick-bed, “This is the fate of a healer. To love, to heal, to give your time and your life to your patients, and expect nothing in return.” He reached for Crawly’s hand, and Crawly gave it to him, fearful to squeeze it lest he break the delicate fingers. “There is nothing left of the Gorgon blood now. I must return to the earth again.”

“Asclepius, you can’t–”

“When my time comes, do not mourn my death. Smile for the fact that I lived once. I am but human. Do not use the Gorgon’s blood to raise me from the land of Hades, for I do not wish to return from there. I must go where I must go, and I have accepted this, friend. I will see you on the other side.”

Crawly did not leave Asclepius’ bedside for the next week. When his friend passed at last, it was in Crawly’s arms, as he held him in disbelief, unwilling to let go, face buried in his friend’s shoulder. Slow tears fell from his eyes and lost themselves in the fabric of Asclepius’ clothes, only leaving behind small dark stains. Those would fade, too, as they dried, and Crawly cried harder as he laid Asclepius back down, as though he could make the memory of Asclepius physically permanent through the sheer multitude of tears.

Behind him, Crawly heard a few sniffs. No footsteps.

“He was such a dear boy, wasn’t he?” Crawly was silent, not wanting to indulge Aziraphale with his moment of weakness.

“It’s not fair.”

“Few things are.”

Crawly couldn’t even try to smile. Any falsity seemed like an insult to his friend. He did everything he could to commemorate Asclepius’ life: he made him the god of healing in his countrymen’s eyes, so that Asclepius might, at least, be worshipped like he deserved to be.

“Struck by a lightning bolt,” Crawly told everyone, “Zeus was angry that he disturbed natural order”. He dedicated the whole area to Asclepius and, to this day, the healing temples are called Asclepions. He named it the Sanctuary of Asclepius, and paid special attention to the amphitheatre so that laughter and revelry might be carried out for his friend. It was the most perfect of the amphitheatres in Greece, by virtue of his demonic blessing. Then, Crawly turned to Aziraphale for help.

It took a few meetings under the moonlight to get the words out of Crawly. That, and a few bottles of Greek wine, sweeter than the scent of flowers in a certain grove inhabited by centaurs.

“You really shouldn’t drink any more if you want to be able to talk to me.”

Crawly made a high-pitched whining sound. “Can’t help it.”

“I mean it. You can sober up all you want, but making me watch you get drunker and drunker is wasting both our time.” Aziraphale pushed the bottle from Crawly’s slackening fingers.

They were silent for a while. Even the wind died down and the sounds of animals rustling in the grass faded away. Aziraphale did not push Crawly to speak, and simply waited. Patience was the least he could offer Crawly, despite the fact that he was the opposition. Grief united them, at the very least.

 _How strange it is_ , he wondered, _that a healer can hurt us like this._ Aziraphale, for one, had all of eternity to wait for Crawly, who had an equally long time to heal.

“Something’s… missing from it,” Crawly finally mumbled, twirling a finger around a lock of long red hair. He would never abandon his pride so far as to call it _help_.

“Your dedications?”

Crawly hesitated. “Maybe.”

“I’m listening.”

• • • • •

They were standing atop the amphitheatre of Epidaurus once again, looking down onto the vast curved rows of stone seats descending into the centre. It had been a year since Asclepius’ death.

Crawly had never really forgotten how to make stars, and under his guidance, Aziraphale helped make thirteen new ones appear in the sky that very night. They glowed alongside the rest, as if they had always been embedded like crystals in the velvet crown of night. As each star appeared, Aziraphale and Crawly realised that this would be the dawn of a new world for them, united under a common cause, learning how to love and how to lose together. The ancients called the constellation [_Ophiuchus_](https://matrixdisclosure-abe3.kxcdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/The-Thirteenth-Sign-Ophiuchus.jpg), the Serpent Holder, though none knew of the painful final embrace between Crawly and Asclepius. The stars, newly born, shed their light on Earth for the first time.

It was by no means enough, but it was something. It was meaningful, at least, and a little selfish. Perhaps he was not as much of a demon as he thought. Perhaps Aziraphale wasn’t as much of an angel as he thought. For the first time, the roles they played seemed unimportant. Perhaps they could even be more than those roles.

But in that moment, as those two stood stargazing, all three of them were gods.


	3. Do Angels Hear Our Songs Too?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is a show, and the show must go on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plays are intended to be heard, although they are often read silently.
> 
> Have a listen of the author's reading below! [ 45:05 min ]

**Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, Act II Scene ii**

_Doubt thou the stars are fire,_   
_Doubt that the sun doth move,_   
_Doubt truth to be a liar,_   
_But never doubt I love._

Heaven and Hell are more alike than most people think. If Heaven is a raw egg cracked into a bowl, Hell is an omelette. The same, only scrambled up and burnt by hellfire.

But Crowley thinks the key difference is that Hell is a stage, full of lies and masks and false personas. In Heaven, there are no cracks into which a snake can slither, nothing to hide behind, and his soul is always bared for the judgement of others. The blades of sunlight which enter through the windows dissect everything they meet, and even the purest of intentions are scrutinised, thrown to the floor, and trampled on.

It doesn’t matter that all the world's a stage. Heaven hardly considers itself part of the earthly realm.

Perhaps that is why he never fit in. Crowley has always been an actor. He’s never claimed to be good at it, of course. But he _is_ good, needs to be good, has spent his whole life pretending, so it would be strange if he wasn’t, right? When it comes to Aziraphale, his rehearsed lines evaporate into thin air, leaving him to founder as he drowns in the desire to impress him.

• • • • •

_Act I, Scene iii_

Aziraphale had come to terms with the fact that there was nothing he could do to control the people in the pit, made up by the general public and drunk revellers. Although he expected somewhat better behaviour from the gentry around him, he was sorely disappointed by their disrespect for those on stage. As soon as Hamlet began to walk off the stage, chatter seemed to burst forth from every part of the Globe. It had been a serious affair, with the appearance of a dead father’s ghost and an accusation of murder. And yet, he mused, not one mind in the whole collective was ready to pay their due respects in the form of appreciative silence.

Every muscle in Aziraphale’s body was clenched as he tried to control his annoyance, even the ones he didn’t realise _could_ be clenched. Not even the soft cushion beneath him provided any comfort.

“Rich enough to purchase seats on the edge of the stage, and still they show poor respect,” he said to himself. Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned backwards, meeting the gaze of a bearded man, who was stout and short and snobbish and altogether not, as some little part of him was hoping, Crowley.

“The players are coming back on,” the man said to him. “Don’t talk, show some respect!” Aziraphale blinked in disbelief, blue eyes beginning to blaze azure, the colour of brandy burning atop a Christmas pudding. Choosing to reprimand _him_ of all people – the one who had least to do with the noise!

The sound of footsteps on the wooden stage (and perhaps a little bit of divine intervention) saved the bearded offender from the fate Aziraphale had planned for him.

From the shadows cast on the stage doors by the afternoon light, one man emerged, confident stride asserting his strength over the very floor he walked on. Laertes, son of the chief counsellor of the king, Polonius. But behind him, following closely, was a lady, red curls spilling over her shoulders like wine from a cup. Familiar red hair, the colour of a dying sun, of molten copper as it cooled. A smile flitted across Aziraphale’s lips before he could help himself.

He wished he could see this with Crowley. Aziraphale blinked. What on Earth was he thinking? They never met for the purpose of enjoyment. Only ever for work. But Aziraphale would be lying if he said that he didn’t enjoy himself at those meetings, that he didn’t remember them fondly like someone might remember a favourite trip to the country. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t ever admit those things aloud. Crowley would never let him hear the end of it.

“My necessaries are embarked. Farewell.”

As the first syllables of the scene rang out in the theatre, the tumult of the crowd faded to a low murmur as it began to focus on Laertes. Yet, though Aziraphale recognised and heard the words spoken, he made no attempt to listen and understand the poetry. He peered out at the red-haired actor, who had his face downcast and hands pressed together, the dress of a court-lady draped lightly over his slender form.

That red hair wasn’t a wig. No wig was so finely-crafted as to almost glow like polished amber in the sunlight and fade to the colour of freshly-picked cherries in the shadows.

“Do you doubt that?”

The note of thinly-veiled sarcasm and his familiar voice were all Aziraphale needed to confirm his suspicions. Laertes’ response went straight over his head as he gazed at Crowley, standing so proud, so elegant, so composed, and wondered why he’d made an appearance on stage. Did he like acting? Had he been cast after they had visited the Globe that day?

Aziraphale shook his head. Angels were never personally interested in demons. He couldn’t afford to be caught showing affection to the enemy. War was peace. Hatred was love. Suppression was sainthood. If he did anything otherwise, he would become a terrible angel–Heaven would catch him–was just a thought enough to condemn him?

“No more,” Laertes concluded.

“No more but so?” Crowley said, smiling, eyes still downcast, either out of genuine meekness or calculating smugness.

“Think it no more.”

Aziraphale returned his full attention to the play, submerging himself in the poetry, the rhythm and weights of the syllables. How fitting it was that the tempter played the tempted, that Crowley played Ophelia, sister of Laertes, in love with the prince Hamlet, and perhaps doomed to a love never to be approved of by others.

Love, Aziraphale thought, could turn people into martyrs and beasts. It could lead someone to tie themselves to the stake and set it aflame by their own hand, smiling even after tendrils of fire had risen and obscured them, so long as the object of their affection was safe. But it could also lead them to bite and scratch and scream and slink away, laughing to themselves, standing proudly on the collapsing roof of a house, protection blurring into possessiveness.

Laertes continued, “Be wary then; best safety lies in fear. Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.”

The smile that lingered on Crowley’s face became a smirk. “I shall the effect of this good lesson keep as watchman to my heart. But, good my brother, do not as some ungracious pastors do, show me the steep and thorny way to heaven,” he said, raising his face, eyes closed in the bliss of knowing a secret, “Whiles, like a puffed and reckless libertine, himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, and recks not his own rede.” Crowley’s tone, sharp like acidic venom, burned a hole through the canvas of meekness painted on his face.

And Aziraphale understood. For those who had taught him that it was right and good to love all of Creation also taught him to hate parts of it. He had never understood why exactly he should follow the path of other holier angels, lined with loathing for demons, when he was pulled towards the path of love. Hadn’t demons been God’s creation too? But he pursued the angelic path nonetheless, at times struggling to accept its paradoxes and inconsistencies, leashed by the golden collar of faith.

Had he already become a bad angel? Would he be a worse angel if he unclasped the tight collar from his throat?

“O, fear me not!” Laertes exclaimed in response, sporting an all-too-confident grin. As his father, Polonius, entered, Crowley was ignored completely in their conversation. Polonius’ lecture to Laertes seemed unending, and Aziraphale was ashamed to admit that his attention had drifted back to Crowley as if compelled by a magnet.

Crowley fiddled with his long tresses as they talked and Aziraphale realised just how much he had missed seeing Crowley with his hair down. Loose and slightly curled, as if it had just fallen out of a braid. Red, like an apple freshly plucked from a forbidden tree.

Crowley’s voice pulled Aziraphale back into reality. “It is in my memory locked, and you yourself shall keep the key of it.”

“Farewell.” Yet even as Laertes left, Crowley did not raise his eyes to gaze at the receding figure. His head remained downcast, like a neoclassical statue of an angel shedding remorseful tears.

Polonius shifted his large and intimidating frame to face Ophelia. “What is it, Ophelia, he hath said to you?”

“So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.”

“Marry, well bethought!”

Aziraphale noted with a frown that Polonius wasted no time in belittling Ophelia as he spoke, as if she were an object whose only purpose was to improve the reputation of the family. How dare she give private time to him? How dare she even consider herself worthy? Aziraphale sighed. Ophelia was in love, but even the strength of her love was submerged by the power of duty.

“You do not understand yourself so clearly as it behoves my daughter and your honour. What is between you? Give me up the truth.”

“He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders of his affection to me.” Crowley’s response reminded Aziraphale of oysters and _salutaria_ and _toss you for Edinburgh_ , and he shook his head to clear his mind before those thoughts went any further.

“Affection? Pooh! You speak like a green girl, unsifted in such perilous circumstance.” Love was dangerous, Aziraphale agreed. An angel was an entity of love. Actually _loving_ was never in the job description. Even just caring for the wrong person could make an angel fall. “Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?”

Crowley shifted uncomfortably. “I do not know, my lord, what I should think.” His voice, previously confident, wavered slightly as he spoke. “He hath importuned me with love in honourable fashion.”

“Ay, fashion you may call it. Go to, go to!”

“And hath given me faith in his speech, my lord, laced with the holy vows of heaven.” Aziraphale stirred. The sentence felt different. Unrehearsed, as if Crowley had impulsively come up with something new to say. Polonius carried on in his tirade, as if Crowley’s lines hadn’t impacted what he was going to say at all.

But Aziraphale was sure that Polonius had a good reason to do so. It was probably for Crowley’s own good that he was listening to figures of authority, rather than being listened to. Yes, that was it, it might have been better if Crowley hadn’t spoken at all.

“Look to it, I charge you. Come your ways.”

“I shall obey, my lord.”

Aziraphale only needed to hear the hint of exasperation in Crowley’s voice to know that he was rolling his eyes. Crowley and Polonius left the stage, but when other actors returned for the next scene, he could not help but feel as though the stage was emptier than before. More boring, even.

• • • • •

_Act II, Scene i_

“O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!” Crowley’s voice was all it took for the murmurs of the crowd to dwindle into expectant silence. Perhaps Aziraphale hadn’t been the only one enamoured by his performance.

“With what, in the name of God?” Polonius replied, looking every bit as bored as Gabriel always did when Aziraphale was making his reports, each syllable drenched with feigned concern.

“My lord, as I was sewing in my closet, Lord Hamlet, with his waistcoat all undone, no hat upon his head, his stockings fouled – pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other.” Crowley paused for breath. “And with a look so piteous in purport, as if he had fallen from Heaven, to speak of horrors – he comes before me.”

“Mad for thy love?”

“My lord, I do not know.” Crowley turned towards the audience in an aside, covering his eyes with his hands, voice unnaturally gentle. Aziraphale noted the flash of confusion that crossed Polonius’ face as he did so. It was unscripted. “But truly, I do hope it.”

“Come, go with me. I will go seek the king. This is the very ecstasy of love, whose violent property fordoes itself and leads the will to desperate undertakings, just as any passion under Heaven afflicts our natures. I am sorry. What, have you given him any hard words of late?”

“No, my good lord.” He turned to the audience again. “Though no words I have given, I have gifted to him my time. Unconditionally, my love, as the Virgin gave once to her angel.”

“That hath made him mad.”

“And may make me mad.” The crowd gave up a shocked murmur.

Bewildered by the interruption, Polonius stuttered out the next line. “I am sorry that with better heed and judgement, I had not quoted him. Come, go we to the King. This must be known, which might rather move grief to hide than morph hate into love. Come.”

 _•_ • • • •

_Act III, Scene i_

Aziraphale pitied Hamlet, not in the way a parent pities their child, but in the way one friend pities another: Hamlet, who was alone in his struggle despite having so many people around him; Hamlet, whose family and friends were compelled to plot against him, with only the shadow of a safe-haven in all his world. A slave to duty and so completely, utterly, human.

“To be, or not to be – that is the question,” Hamlet confessed to the audience, eyes and speech devoid of passion and vitality.

 _No,_ Aziraphale thought, _you already_ are _. You were. You will be. And though it is destined that pain follows every human throughout their lives like a bloodhound tracking its prey, time and love can soothe your wounds._ He lamented, on Hamlet’s behalf, that the brevity of human lifespans only allowed them to realise the transcendent power of love too late. _Time alone can only do so much._

“And thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied over with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith and moment, with this regard, their currents turn awry and lose the name of action.” He turned away from the front of the stage, casting his gaze onto Crowley, who stood frozen behind him. “Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.”

Aziraphale wondered how Ophelia faced the world with calm mien despite being ordered to deceive and hurt. How did Crowley do it so confidently, so… effortlessly? Perhaps putting on a brave face was part of their task. Perhaps it was their way to cope with their task.

“My lord, I have remembrances of yours that I have longed long to re-deliver. I pray you, now receive them.” Crowley clutched the pile of letters, bound with twine, to his chest and presented them to Hamlet. He cast aside the twine and leafed through the letters, brow furrowed. Then he flung them back at Crowley, and the evidence of their love dispersed in the air like a heart shattering, the letters coming to rest on the floor.

“No, not I! I never gave you aught.” Hamlet stepped towards Crowley, crushing one of the letters underfoot. Aziraphale saw Crowley flinch and step back instinctively, and his heart tugged in sympathy.

“My honoured lord, you know right well you did, and with them words of such angelic breath composed have made these things richer. Their sweetness lost, take these again, for, to the noble mind, holy gifts prove untouchable when givers prove unreachable.”

“Ha, ha! Are you honest?”

“Am I? Forsooth, demonic and angelic hands alike can turn truth to lies, lies to truth, iniquity to fairness, and back again. Nay, my lord, that is for you to decide, not for me to tell.”

“Then it appears that your honesty and beauty have no discourse. Your body with beauty overflows, and yet not one drop of truth lies within.”

Crowley paused. _He’s improvising_ , Aziraphale realised with a start. But the words that Crowley had spoken were poetry, and Crowley did not com pose poetry, as far as he was aware.

“Is that not our nature, then, to lie and deceive and harm? Can it be our fault, unless into that apple we had never bitten, with such knowledge never imparted upon us? Why do you blame me, now that I begin to question? If cast your stones you will, then crush that snake from Eden, grind its skull into dust with your heel, for perhaps we are better never having known.”

Aziraphale had been wrong. Crowley didn’t speak poetry. He lived and breathed it, as delicate with speech as the kiss of a rose petal.

“I did love you once.”

“My God, you made me believe so.”

“You should not have believed me, for no virtue may make fresh once more this rotten meat. I loved you not.”

“And yet, for you, because of you, I fell.”

A few tears nudged at the corners of Aziraphale’s eyes, and he refused to let them fall.

“Get thee to a nunnery. Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent, yet I could accuse me of such things that I wish my mother had not borne me. I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to perform them. What should such fellows as I do, crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves, all. Go thy ways to a nunnery.”

“You are allowed to err, my lord. It is your privilege, few as those may be in this world. You crawl, but you may rise, dare, and once again dream of flight. You can be born anew; your wings can still grow back whence they shattered. There is hope for you yet, you who are not I, you who may set foot in churches without your sole burning.”

“What are these wrongdoings of which you speak?”

“I do not know. Right and wrong to heavenly minds are inconceivable to us, perhaps changing with the wind, perhaps as stable as the shoulders of one who bears the world upon them. The knowledge of error alone is enough to warrant punishment.”

“Then, if thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for your dowry, befitting as it is; be thou chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt ne’er escape your past. Get thee to a nunnery. May its stone floor burn your feet and cauterise your wounds. Go, farewell. Or if thou wilt marry, marry no man; for men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go; and quickly too. Farewell.”

Crowley cried out, a sharp, shrill sound, harsh like metal scratching metal. “O Heavenly powers, I beg of you, hear him! Though you return silence for my pleading, hear him, help him, restore him!”

“Plead no more. You are abhorrent to me.” Crowley gave a strained smile in response. _That’s nothing new_ , it seemed to say.

Aziraphale gritted his teeth and tried to remind himself that this was only a play.

“I had heard of your kindness, my lord. Where is it now?”

“I had heard of your beauty, too, yet have found ‘tis just a painting. God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another.”

“For to both him and Her my face was displeasing.”

“Ha! You jig, and amble, and you lisp, you nickname God’s creatures and make your wantonness your ignorance.”

“But who is there to hear or see? Even Heaven shuts its eyes and ears to the sound of my voice.”

“Go to, I’ll speak no more on it. It hath made me mad. To a nunnery, go!” Hamlet stalked away, his heavy footsteps on the hollow wooden stage ringing out like the chimes of a clock, counting down to a calamity. Crowley was left alone, and he sank down to his knees as he pleaded to the scattered letters on the ground around him.

“O, what a noble mind is here overthrown! The son’s, scholar’s, lover’s smile, tongue, and flaming sword – one who once met expectations so many and varied, who was held, a beacon of hope and admiration, who could have hung the stars, one from such heights cast down so low. O, miserable are we who have stood on high mountains, for we only have further to fall.”

The crowd was completely silent, and for a passing moment, Aziraphale wondered what the original script would have been. Would it have been so delicate, so vulnerable, so raw? This time, when he felt the tears threaten to overflow, he allowed himself to weep quietly for Crowley, and all that he had lost.

_Oh, Crowley, time can only heal so much._

• • • • •

_Act IV, Scene v_

The fourth act brought a buffet of the worst sides of humanity: bloodshed, conviction, misunderstanding, self-doubt, and all-consuming revenge. Ophelia’s father was killed by Hamlet’s hand. The fourth act did not, however, present Crowley until it neared its end.

Crowley entered. Tottering, swaying unsteadily to a beat that seemed to play in only his ears, white nightgown swishing at his ankles. “Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark?” he said, giggling to himself. The crowd tittered with him.

The only indication of Queen Gertrude’s discomfort was her stiff posture. She smiled. “How now, Ophelia?”

Crowley’s laughter came to an abrupt halt. Then he began to sing, and the opening notes of a well-known melancholy folk tune left his lips. Crowley sped up without warning, until the song almost became a frenzied chant; the spike in energy clashed with the delicate, lamenting requiem. Aziraphale had heard it as he’d passed a coffin and its coffin-bearers on their way to Lancaster.

“How should I your true love know from another one? By his heart as true as day and smile, bright as the sun.”

“Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?”

Crowley stopped. “Say you? Nay, pray you, mark.” He resumed his song, singing louder as he carried on, his tone becoming more abrasive. “We are dead and gone, lady, we are dead and gone. No more do haloes grace our heads, now we are the unquiet dead.” He gave a short, scraping laugh as he turned, finishing with his back to the audience. His white nightgown fell around him like the cold waters of a cascade.

Gertrude reached out to grasp Crowley’s arm. “Nay, but Ophelia–”

Crowley whipped around, golden, serpentine eyes flashing a warning. “Pray you, mark!”. The first rows of the audience shrank back out of fear, and the whispers of the words “yellow eyes” rippled through the groundlings. Aziraphale shivered. Crowley advanced to the front of the stage, staring fixedly into space as the crowd began to yell in shock.

Voice wavering, he began his song anew. “White our shrouds as the mountain snow…”

The stage door opened, and King Claudius emerged. Gertrude scurried over to him, clutching his arm for support, and breathed, “Alas, look here, my lord!”

Crowley sang on. “Mourned we all with songs from the stars, stars which fell in showers.”

“How do you, pretty lady?” Claudius ventured, shielding Gertrude behind him.

Crowley gave him a sweet smile as he turned back to face him. “Well, God yield you!” he said, “They say, they say…” He began to giggle again. “They say the owl was once the baker’s daughter, she who refused the bread of Jesus. How wise one so foolish can become!” He stepped forward and laid a gentle hand on Claudius’ chest. “My lord, we know what we are not, but not what we may become. May God be at your table, and may you be the feast.” A chill ran down Aziraphale’s spine.

Claudius gently pushed Crowley away. “She speaks of her dead father.”

Crowley flashed a grin at the audience. “Pray you, but when they ask you what it means, say you this.” He circled the stage, sometimes walking, sometimes running, sometimes skipping, and took up the melody once more, its haunting cheerfulness morphing into a demonic screech. “Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day, all in the morning betime, and I, a temptress at your window, await you as your Valentine. Then out you came, linked we our arms, all the way to the theatre door. And when you spoke, this temptress was tempted, and a demon was no more.” Crowley’s voice cracked, and Aziraphale wondered whether it was from the strain of maintaining such volume or from emotion alone.

“Pretty Ophelia–”

“Is that all I can be? Have I not a voice to employ? But indeed, I’ll make an end on it.” Crowley laughed again. No-one laughed with him.

Aziraphale sympathised with Crowley. With Ophelia. No, Crowley. _Stand there, look pretty, because no-one will listen to what you have to say. People will demand completed assignments from you, and you’ll give, offering yourself up as a sacrifice so that you might be worthy. You’ll already have forgotten, by then, exactly why being worthy to them was so important._

“How long hath she been thus?” Claudius asked Gertrude, who simply shook her head.

Crowley whirled to face him again, stomping towards him in a way that screamed _I’m still here and I can still hear you_. He howled, tone accusatory, drowning out Claudius’ indifference, “I only hope all will be well. We must be patient; but I cannot choose but weep to think they would lay him in the cold ground.” Crowley jabbed a finger at Claudius’ chest. “My brother shall know of it. And so, I _thank_ you for your _good_ counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies. Good night, sweet ladies. Good night, good night.”

Crowley stumbled off stage as he had entered, half-drunkenly, half-dancing. Aziraphale longed to comfort him. But Heaven was always watching. Would they see? Would they feel as he did? Would they care at all?

As Laertes came in, vowing revenge for the murder of his father, Aziraphale was outwardly warm with empathy and cold with grief for Crowley.

Offstage, someone yelled, “Let her come in!”

Crowley entered, carrying a bouquet of flowers. His white nightgown was stained with dirt at the hem, red hair in the shadows the dark colour of dried blood. He sang again, canorous and dulcet, no longer shouting out his fury and fear and suffering. His wound was still as raw as before, only concealed beneath the greater burden of madness.

“They bore him barefaced on the pier, hey, non nonny, nonny, hey, nonny. And in his grave rained many a tear.” Then he spoke tenderly into the flowers in his hand. “Fare you well, my dove.”

“Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, it could not move me as you do, thus.” Laertes gritted his teeth.’

“No!” Crowley exclaimed, rushing to Laertes and scrambling for his hand. “You _must_ sing ‘A-down, a-down.’” He turned, pointing at Gertrude. “And, and you, sing ‘call him a-down-a’.” He giggled.

Laertes opened his mouth to speak again, but Crowley cut him off, handing him a green sprig. “There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember.” He plucked two flowers from his collection next, offering it again to Laertes. “And there are pansies, s’for thoughts.” Deep magenta petals framed two golden centres, which reminded Aziraphale of a pair of perfect golden eyes. Pansies for thoughts, indeed.

“A document in madness! Thoughts and remembrance connected,” Laertes gasped.

Crowley daintily stepped over to Gertrude, pirouetting in his movement like a nymph, saying, “There’s fennel for you, and columbines. Adultery!” He threw the flowers at her, laughing vindictively, and turned to Claudius. “There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me. For repentance, see? Oh, here’s a daisy, for unhappy love. I would give you some violets for faithfulness, but they withered all when my father died.”

“Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself. She turns them to things of beauty,” Laertes mused aloud. Aziraphale shook his head. Those things were not beautiful. No, _Crowley_ was the beautiful one, and ugly things held by beautiful people became beautiful by association. He didn’t know if Crowley was acting anymore. His every movement seemed desperate in its restraint, every vapid smile corresponding to tears held back too long.

Crowley sang on, turning to the heavens, a nightingale singing a love song to the moon who would never respond. “For the bonny sweet Dove is all my joy, and will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead. Go to thy deathbed. He will never rise again.” His amber eyes were lava lakes threatening to spill over, and his voice grew soft as he knelt to the ground. “His hair was white as snow, his aura shining silver. He will never love me again, if me he ever did prefer. God have mercy.” The audience let the final notes of the song echo, then burst into thunderous applause and shouting. Aziraphale heard someone beside him praise the way the company had produced the illusion of Crowley’s eyes, a fantastic trick of the light. He was the stillest person in the audience for those few minutes, watching Crowley kneel, suppliant, before the audience as if before an altar.

• • • • •

_Act IV, Scene vii_

Ophelia was dead. Fallen from a weeping willow and drowned in the lake. Aziraphale tried not to think about pools of burning sulphur.

• • • • •

Aziraphale was barely able to stay and watch until the end. Ophelia may have only been written as a side character, but she wasn’t, not to Aziraphale, not with Crowley in the role. As Hamlet died and Horatio wept over his best friend’s body, Aziraphale smelt smoke and thought of fire and the smell of burning feathers. The candles had been lit in the galleries, and it was getting dark.

The full cast emerged on stage again, and the applause was thunderous. In a lucid moment, Aziraphale found himself avidly applauding and cheering on Crowley. He wondered if he should go down and meet Crowley, then decided against it.

Aziraphale watched every performance of _Hamlet_ from afar, making sure that he was concealed behind at least a row or two of people in the gallery, and Crowley’s speeches, lucent and inflammatory by turns, changed with every telling. Sometimes, dry wit kindling humor, Crowley made laughter fall from Aziraphale’s lips like a magician. Other times, he was moved to tears that burned sorrowful tracks down his face. He learnt something new every time.

Every evening, after the play was over, after everyone had vacated the theatre, Aziraphale sat in the private park of the Duke of Winchester until night fell upon the city of London. It wasn’t trespassing, he convinced himself, not if he blessed the trees and flowers each time. It was a fair exchange: the gardeners were hardly doing their job right.

Amongst the plants, he had time to stop and think about the play. He didn’t know it, but his eyes twinkled every time he thought of them, _together_. Above him, the stars twinkled back. One, more so than others.

The second-brightest star in the northern hemisphere, Vega. It was tenderly set in the constellation [_Lyra_](https://miro.medium.com/max/2668/1*3uFmFrVCdipFuKht4KemJQ.png), the constellation of the lyre of Orpheus, who was said to have performed so beautifully that even gods were moved to tears.

 _Not all stories have happy endings_ , Aziraphale thought one evening, _but there is light in them nonetheless._

Crowley touched his heart in each performance, even if Aziraphale didn’t understand what he was saying. He showed Aziraphale, step by step, that no life was so simple as a comedy or tragedy, but a complex pastiche of emotions. Living was finding one’s own happiness within the depths of grief _and_ falling from joy to melancholy like a shooting star.

The angel and the demon. The connoisseur of comedy and the lover of tragedy. One afraid of love and one who was the personification of it. So different; so alike.

The final performance of _Hamlet_ came. Crowley reprised his role with greater desperation and passion than ever before, grasping at his last moments on stage as if they were his last breaths in life. It had become a safe haven of sorts. Crowley would miss the stage. Aziraphale would miss seeing him on it.

But at the curtain call, when Crowley had bowed and silently thanked the crowd for the last time, Aziraphale witnessed a miracle. A smile eased its way onto Crowley’s face and grew, grew, grew into a grin that stretched from ear to ear. No trace of his usual smirk anywhere to be seen. A genuine, beaming smile that would easily have outshone the most brilliant supernova.

Crowley had given the stage all he had and more, and now it had given him something in return. His smile warmed Aziraphale to the very core and promised, in a little whisper, that love couldn’t ever be a sin. He couldn’t stop the warm, mirthful tears coming to his eyes.

And as Aziraphale watched, as ever, from on high, he saw that Crowley had needed the stage more than the stage had needed Crowley.


	4. Speed Demons and Guardian Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bentley and Crowley go fast; they find someone to ride with them.

**Bohemian Rhapsody, Queen**

_Didn’t mean to make you cry -_  
_If I’m not back again this time tomorrow,_  
_Carry on, carry on,_  
_As if nothing really matters._

There is no doubt that the Bentley – _the_ Bentley – is an extraordinary vehicle. It is as if Crowley had envisioned himself like [_Auriga_](https://astrologyking.com/wp-content/uploads/auriga-constellation.jpg), the Charioteer, when he had placed that constellation in the night sky, wishing for a chariot to complete him. But times change, handmade cars come into fashion and Crowley decides that these are undisputedly far more practical than chariots.

The most fundamental part of the Bentley’s identity is her ability to listen. She’s there every time Crowley hisses expletives so colourful they could be used for every piece of pop art (past, present, and future) and still have colour left to spare. She is Crowley’s sole audience at his in-transit concerts as he drives to Edinburgh to escape it all, returning with the scent of malt and hops practically woven into the fabric of his clothes. Any route the Bentley takes, it’s a long drive from London, so she takes to rumbling up the scenic route through Sheffield and Leeds, then up the Northumberland coast. Where the A1 runs along the seashore, the cool ocean air is welcoming and the roar of the waves drowns out the muted hum of her engine.

Sometimes, Crowley’s setlist for his concerts is entirely comprised of insults aimed towards things he passes – the more beautiful, the better.

“Fucking pothole! Why don’t they ever get fixed?” All the way from Alnwick to Berwick, he screams like the stars he made so long ago (or Someone equally high up there) might hear him if he is loud enough. “Great big buggering sea, sparkling like, like, like knives in the sunlight. Who even needs all that space anyway? Bloody hell, most of us can’t even drink salt water!”

He swats one hand at a fly that just won’t go back out the window like he’s turned into one of those inflatable… _tube people_ outside car dealerships. “I swear,” he lashes out at the poor insect, “that _you’re_ the devil Beelzebub has set aside for me.” A thought came to his mind. Crowley groaned. “Fuck’s sake, if you’re actually Beelzebub, when I come back to Hell, I’ll lick the ceiling, all the walls, and then I’ll lick you, absolute _bastard_.”

Not even a miracle will let him overtake the Citroën in front of him, which is following the speed limit so well that Crowley deems it the “immovable object” to the Bentley’s “unstoppable force”. It ever so slightly edges into his lane like the driver has no concept of personal space, even having the _audacity_ to slow down. He yells something like “nghkeigheialAOIQL”. The Bentley starts blasting _Don’t Stop Me Now_.

The Bentley finds that Crowley normally loses motivation to abuse things as he travels between Berwick and Edinburgh. There’s only so long a demon can have a one-sided argument.

Most of the time, however, Crowley sings. His hold on the steering wheel loosens and he stops leaning forward like he is looking for prey on the roads, relaxing into his seat. His voice is silky and dark, with dulcet undertones. She thinks of rare nights spent in the middle of nowhere, where they spend all night staring at the stars, which are no longer obscured by the smoke and lights of London. Crowley points out his handiwork, telling her about the galaxies he twisted into spirals with a flick of his finger and the planets he sent spinning with a snap of his wrist. His voice also reminds the Bentley of stellar nebulae, pinpoints of far-off angelic flames amidst demonic poison, bleeding across the watery sky. These nebulae can be both graveyards and nurseries. The only newborn the Bentley ever meets comes from a graveyard. To her, there’s no real difference.

Crowley tells her that he’s a one-trick pony, that he only knows how to sing the love song he’s been singing since he met an angel on the stone wall of Eden. But she knows that’s false. He also sings her the lullabies he sang to the developing stars, watching and smiling as they swirled and settled into wondrous balls of light. The sweet melodies are enchanting and Crowley’s voice is not wistful or baffled or cynical as it usually is, but seraphic. The Bentley feels herself drowsily slowing down when she hears them, engine purring. For a pair that goes so fast, neither the car nor her driver seem to mind the ebbing speed. The Bentley wonders how that same voice also gives life to words clouded with fury and desperation.

_Sometimes_ , she thinks, _the anger is all that keeps him standing. That, and the stories he tells._

When Crowley is not taking his anger out on innocent inanimate objects or singing, he tells stories to the Bentley. Biographies of the stars that peek out from behind the black curtain of night. A love story six thousand years long. A divine comedy with him as the punchline.

The Bentley remembers how Crowley shocked her into almost skidding off the road in the months following the end of World War II, while they were on the way back to London from the country. The news broadcast over the radio had mentioned, in passing, that some of the children evacuated from London had been abandoned by their parents and had nowhere to go.

“What sort of parent wouldn’t want their child any more?” he whispered to himself. The Bentley noticed how Crowley’s fingers clenched around the steering wheel. She turned the radio off. His breathing became shaky, and the Bentley realised she’d hit the wrong switch.

His next question was deafening, like screeching feedback from a microphone. He slammed his foot on the accelerator. “I said, what sort of parent just turns their back on their kid? S’it so they can pretend they did a perfect job the first time round? Were the kids too loud? Annoying?” Crowley gritted his teeth. “Did they ask too many questions?”

The Bentley listened as Crowley screamed about the time before the Earth had been created. About how just one inquiring note in his song was enough for Her to rip the fabric of Creation apart beneath his feet and turn a blind eye as he fell. About the shriek that burned his throat as his long red hair streamed out behind him like a comet’s tail.

Crowley hissed at the road ahead of him, wrenching the Bentley this way and that, knuckles white against the steering wheel as little black scales materialised on the backs of his hands. He was silent for a while.

When Crowley next opened his mouth, it was to talk about a stone wall. The scales had disappeared from his skin and the fire in his eyes had dimmed. The Bentley was no longing swerving between lanes as she listened to the softer inflection of his voice. As the story flowed out of him, she could almost hear cymbal crashes of thunder and an army of raindrops beating out a tattoo on the land. The flutter of feathers unfurling to become a shield, casting a shadow – safe, soft, dry. Crowley’s quivering wings and his heart, pitter-pattering in time with the rain.

The Bentley knows that Crowley is unpredictable even when he sings. There aren’t always words. Or a rhythm. Or a tune. There are even times in between outbursts of song when he stops singing completely, but the Bentley knows that the backing track continues inside her driver’s head, a full-sized symphony orchestra that only he can hear as he absently nods his head at traffic lights. Her engine purrs on in encouragement.

• • • • •

Outside the still-smoking ruins of a bombed church in 1941, the Bentley held another passenger for the first time. A lift home.

Back then, she exclusively played the music of the big bands – boisterous, shiny, and unshackled – assertions of the right to happiness and freedom in wartime. The Bentley was used to Crowley driving like he had lost control of his body to the loud jazz he used to drown out the radio static of existence. But that night, as the angel sat in the passenger seat, books perched neatly on his lap, she didn’t play that sort of music, and Crowley didn’t exceed the speed limit by as much as usual. It was the first time Crowley hadn’t yelled at her for playing slow, romantic jazz, and the first time his voice wasn’t drowned out by the music. The first few minutes were quiet as they pretend to listen to the saxophone solo. Then, the passenger asked a question, voice so soft that even the Bentley needed to turn the music down, straining to hear.

“So… uh… what have you been up to these days?”

“Eh, not much, Angel. Jus’ the usual temptations. Still doing those good… good deeds?”

Crowley’s heartbeat was almost as fast as his driving; The Bentley felt it thudding in his palms clutching the wheel. She reasoned that this other being must be important, at the very least, to her driver. Crowley called him ‘Angel’, his voice tender and affectionate. It was strange for the Bentley to hear; she was only accustomed to his derisive use of the word. She cruised along, her journey strangely smooth over hazardous roads. If someone nearby had poked their head out of their air raid shelter, they would have sworn – crossed their hearts and hope to die – that a car was floating over potholes and other sunken parts of the road, as if it were trying to mollify the unpleasant driving conditions.

Aziraphale miracled a tartan tin of shortbread into his hand. “In case you get peckish someday.” He smiled. When he took one out and bit into it,the Bentley felt a radiating wave of contentment that made all its internal machinery hum with warmth.

The Bentley liked this first passenger of hers, and decided to like all angels called Aziraphale in future.

• • • • •

1967\. The Bentley didn’t like being able to feel the lingering warmth on a tartan Thermos from two pairs of hands too scared to touch and hold each other. The way Crowley slumped back against his seat, no longer king of the little world he made himself, head drooped like a wilted flower. The slam of his foot onto the accelerator as he pulled out from his parking spot, heel grinding down like a Catholic portrayal of Mary crushing a snake underfoot. She felt Crowley’s tighten his grip on the wheel like there was no way in Hell he was going to let Jesus take it. Like he couldn’t imagine living life outside the fast lane, because he needed to suck the world dry of what it had to offer before it collapsed in on itself.

• • • • •

It takes 7 years for the wound to scab over, for his world to start anew. Crowley doesn’t go to hospitals when he’s hurt. He goes to parties. Crowley uses booze as anaesthetic, then music and good times as antiseptic.

At one of the parties – he barely knows whose, unsure if he’s even invited – Crowley ends up lying on the grand piano, almost absolutely shitfaced, singing to the ceiling at the top of his lungs about a home to which he can never return.

“You have a nice voice.”

Crowley rolls over and clocks a lanky man facing him. He tries to ask his name. Rudely, of course – it’s the only way Crowley knows how to respond to a compliment. What he really says is something along the lines of “Wahthefuck ‘n’, ‘n’ hoodahellayoo?”. The humiliation caused by his incoherence cuts through Crowley’s drunkenness.

“Y’alright? Glass of water?”

“Nah,” Crowley says, and Freddie doesn’t know which question he’s answering. Crowley raised an unsteady finger and pointed in the general of Freddie’s face. “What d’you say?”

“Said you had a nice voice, love.”

“Very funny.”

“Oh, don’t be like that!” He flashed a toothy smile. “I’m Freddie. Freddie Mercury.”

_Queen_ lead singer, _Killer Queen_ writer. “Oh, s’your party, innit?” Crowley smiles, pushing up his sunglasses. He has more teeth than Freddie expects. “Crowley.” Freddie looks like he’s expecting a first name. “Just Crowley.”

“Well, ‘just Crowley’, you’re the last person left in this house.”

“Tellin’ me to leave, are you?”

“Oh, no, no, that’s not what I meant. Stay, please. You look like you need someone to talk to.”

“Wai- who, me?” Freddie ushers an unwilling Crowley to the settee on his right. “Hngk. Got n’thing to say.”

“And that’s why you’ve drunk yourself halfway to passing out, is it?”

“D’you do thisss to everyone?”

“I make exceptions for handsome singers who sound like they have too much on their minds.”

_Well played_. “S’this… we weren’t a good match, he ssaid. Land and sky, we were. Black and white. Amera- Emeri- Black coffee and milk.” Freddie nods slowly. He doesn’t think Crowley realises that all the opposites he lists are fantastic pairings. “Freddie, tell me, d’you believe in fate? God?”

“Yes.”

“What if I told you that our God was female?”

“Huh?”

“What _if_ ,” Crowley slurs, “God was a woman?”

“Does it matter? Then… I guess She’d just be our Mama.”

“Good to know that Mama hates me.” Crowley laughed. “Wouldn’t be surprised. Fell in love with one of her angels. Then I hurt him.” Crowley gulped. “What… what if he doesn’t come back?”

“Ah… _Angel,_ is he? Look, Crowley, you sound like a good man. No bad person sings that well when they’re drunk. You can apologise. He’ll understand.”

“He said.” Crowley buries his head in his hands. “Said I go too fast for him. And his eyesss. I dunno if he was sad or jus’, jus’ sorry for me.” His lip quivers. “S’mthing elssse to drink?”

“No more drinks, darling.” Freddie patted Crowley’s head. “Sometimes we have to slow down so we can see everything well. Take a bit of time off. In fact, what you need is a nice long sit down.”

“Dun wanna.”

“Talk about it?”

Crowley pauses. “Not… yet.”

“A song, maybe, for us singers?”

“M’drunk.”

“All the better!”

“Not a singer.”

Freddie laughed. “No use lying now. I know what I heard.” He pushes up the lid and sets up the lid prop to expose the soundboard, sitting down at the stool and raising the keyboard cover. Crowley sprawls out across the whole settee. Freddie’s fingers ghost over the keys before they settle. “Something I’ve toyed with for a few years. Great for improvising over.” Only a few notes comprise the tune, which is just a short, repeated motif with occasional variations. Both of them are silent as the music reverberates in the room. Then, Freddie opens his mouth, thinks of their conversation, and sings.

“Mama…” The B flat just below middle C.

“Higher.” Crowley demands. Freddie raises an eyebrow.

“Mama,” he tries again, a perfect fifth higher. F.

“A major sixth up. Hold the note longer this time,” comes the order again.

“If you say so.” Freddie decides to humour him. “Mama,” Freddie tentatively tries, and feels it click. The mediant of the key major’s scale. D. He’s about to stop playing and praise Crowley when an unsure voice carries on singing, compelling him to keep playing.

“Jus’ killed a… a man. Put an idea into his head, wish I’d shut my mouth instead.” Crowley laughs, and Freddie turns to him, beaming.

“Crowley! That was brilliant!” They spend what is left of the night playing and singing. Freddie sings him Zoroastrian teachings put to music – one of these is _Mana Maa_ , with a cheerful melody celebrating virtues that humans can attain – while Crowley talks about his Angel until he almost throws up from the copious amounts of alcohol in his bloodstream.

Crowley excuses himself from the premises, not without leaving his contact details. Freddie watches him leave, brow furrowing when Crowley stumbles into a Bentley, sunglasses almost falling off his face. He lets him drive off anyway, feeling like someone, or something, is protecting him.

• • • • •

Never again, Crowley decides, will he drink himself almost to discorporation in front of humans, at least not until he figures out a subtler way of sobering up. But he had been happy that night. Not because of the alcohol, but because of the hours he spent around the piano, singing and talking about the past, treating it like a tangible object instead of the shadow it casts. Having shared his story, the constricting feeling around his chest is looser.

Freddie asks to meet up again. And again. And again.

Sometimes they make music. Beautiful music, music that Freddie thinks is the stuff of Heaven fallen to Earth. Sometimes they sit and drink. They do that less these days. Now, when they drink, it is not to forget the past. Sometimes it is just the two of them, talking about their lives – everything that went horribly wrong and everything else that made it worth the suffering. Freddie talks about the people he loves, and Crowley talks about the Angel he can’t forget.

Kindred souls need little time to know each other well. Few things need to be explained, or even said aloud. Crowley understands Freddie’s need for displays of grandeur. More harmonies, more “Bismillah”s, more “Galileo”s. Grittier acoustics and louder drums and opera in the middle of a pop song. Freddie is the type to hang a chandelier in his garage, and Crowley will show up, with the ladder.

Freddie wouldn’t be surprised if he hears Crowley says that his Angel hung the moon and stars in the night sky. He also doesn’t believe a word of Crowley’s “polar opposites” talk. Angel is a reader. Crowley is a wordsmith. Angel likes rules. Crowley knows the rules to the letter so that he can work around them. Angel would go to the ends of the Earth for someone he loves. Crowley would go to the end of the world for Angel.

They both sound like they would go to the end of the world for someone they love.

Crowley is adamant about not being credited for co-writing songs, no matter how much Freddie insists. He says that too many people hear the songs, and Freddie knows not to ask again.

They listen together as _Bohemian Rhapsody_ goes on radio for the first time. “Easy temptation, all it took was telling the radio host _not_ to broadcast the song,” Crowley boasts. Later, when they are celebrating the first play, Freddie notices that Crowley still calls the song by its working title, _Paradise Fallen_ , but smiles and says nothing.

• • • • •

The Bentley has never chauffeured a human before. To be fair, Freddie, with his godlike confidence, doesn’t sound very human to her at all. So, when Crowley pulls up outside Freddie’s residence, the Bentley’s engine as she waits to see what this human is like.

“1926 Bentley! Beauty of a ride you’ve got, Crowley.” Freddie opened the passenger door and fell into the passenger seat. It clicked shut after him.

_Warm_ , thinks the Bentley. _Not Aziraphale-warm, that’s different, like all the eyes of the world are looking at you kindly. Freddie is warm, burning like fire the way that Crowley burns like ice held against the skin too long, a self-consuming light that makes the world brighter._ The Bentley marvels at how a mortal can burn so fiercely and yet not even come close to burning out _._

“’Bout that.”

“What?”

“M’name. Anthony. Figured, since we’re on these terms and all.” Freddie grins like the Cheshire Cat.

“ _Anthony_ ,” he says, savouring every syllable. “Thanks for the name, darling. I’ll use it wisely.”

Freddie doesn’t mind how fast they go, as long as they aren’t caught. Crowley is glad not to have to think of anything else. The Bentley is a shy admirer. It doesn’t play _Queen_ when Freddie rides along.

She is Crowley’s; Crowley is hers. As long as they are together, she is happy.

It’s even better when Crowley brings a friend along.

• • • • •

In September of the following year, Freddie finds a letter and a box on his doorstep. The envelope is addressed to him. The initials A.J.C. stand out in relief on the red wax seal. The cursive in the enclosed letter is spiky and uneven, and the words are so close together that he could probably play Snakes and Ladders on them.

_My Freddie,_

_I’m going to go and see him. To apologise. Say that I’ll slow down for him. It’s never too late._

_Hear that? It’s never too late to do what you need to do. Oh, look at me, giving you advice like I have any legs (or feet) to stand on. Working with you has made me a sap._

_I’ve had a brilliant time. Send me tickets to your next show. Anywhere, anytime. Or just put me on the VIP list. Not sure what it is you do these days._

_Don’t be too upset about not seeing me. I don’t miss calls._

_Hope this will make up for it._

_Always yours,_

__

_Anthony J. Crowley_

Freddie takes care not to tear the wrapping paper, patterned with red and black snakes, as he unwraps the box. A cassette tape lies within, labeled in big, deliberate letters with a thick black marker. _Demo: Somebody to Love._

He never thought Crowley would leave. Freddie feels like a child again, powerless against the forces that move the ground under his feet, taking him further and further away from comfort. He thought he had finally finished building his home in this new country and filled it with all the people he loved.

How could just one absence, a cut-out the size of just one lanky man, leave such a big hole? Freddie feels like Crowley had taken the roof of his newly-finished home with him, leaving it vulnerable to the brutal forces of nature. Already, he can feel the rain pouring in. It is cold.

Tears drip onto the cassette tape and Freddie is quick to wipe them off with his shirt lest any damage come to it. He should feel happy and excited for this new adventure of Crowley’s. So why wasn’t he? Was he so self-obsessed that he valued his own happiness above that of his friend? Was he so arrogant as to think that he could provide Crowley everything he needed?

The success of the Hyde Park concert is something Freddie had wanted them to bathe in together, to spend at least a night looking back at how far they’ve come.

When the rest of _Queen_ hear it, they love it. Freddie doesn’t want it to be released. He wants to keep it to himself, a private memento of Crowley, of their friendship. It’s a selfish idea that he pushes from his mind, hoping that Crowley might hear it on the radio. Maybe buy the single. One last song together.

He still calls him Crowley. Freddie’s saving the other name for another occasion.

• • • • •

It takes four months and a trip to Wisconsin, in the States, before they see each other again for Freddie’s next concert. The first show of _Queen_ ’s Jubilee tour. They chat on the phone but it’s a far cry from talking face to face, The lovelorn edge is gone from Crowley’s voice, which is now thick with something Freddie can’t quite put his finger on. Pride? Elation? The word dawns on him, and it is not as extreme as he thought it would be. Contentment.

Freddie misses watching the emotions burn across Crowley’s face like wildfires.

It’s funny how quickly he spots Crowley. Granted, his friend is standing in the front row. Then Freddie notices the man beside him. Round and curved in all the places Crowley is sharp and lanky, wearing some sort of cream formal attire entirely unsuitable for a rock concert. Is that a waistcoat?

Crowley and his Angel are a strange pair. The way they smile at each other when the other isn’t looking makes Freddie sure that they’re a perfect pair.

When they sing _Somebody to Love_ , Freddie isn’t sure if Crowley is adjusting his sunglasses or wiping away a tear. He is a static figure in the moving crowd, frozen in time. Freddie introduces _Bohemian Rhapsody_ as a song about a fallen paradise, and Crowley smiles up at him.

Feeling like the concert started only minutes ago, Freddie goes back to his private dressing room. Three minutes later, he jumps at a sudden drum roll of knocks on his door. He laughs

Freddie opens the door just in time to hear “ _Crowley, stop that!”_ said in the most posh, affronted way possible. He sees red hair, black leather, and sunglasses next to a plump blonde in a cream coat, tan waistcoat, and matching tartan bowtie. Freddie’s already laughing as he’s saying “Anthony” over and over again as he pulls Crowley into an embrace.

“God, I missed you,” he says, giving Crowley’s hands a squeeze before he lets go. “Now, I take it that _this_ must be your Angel.” Freddie gestures grandly towards said Angel, flashes a beaming smile, and raises one eyebrow suggestively.

Crowley looks as if he wanted to debate the use of the possessive pronoun. Instead, he is far more civil than usual. “Yee-ess, Aziraphale, meet Freddie.”

He almost looks exactly as Freddie had imagined him, eyes a fraction sharper and bluer than he expects. “Freddie,” Aziraphale says, “Your performance tonight, it was absolutely wonderful – I’ve never seen anything like it before – I’ve heard so much about you from Crowley here. Thank you for taking care of him. I know how he can get.”

“Especially when he’s drunk.” Freddie grins. “Anthony talks about you like you’ve known each other for millennia. I think the only other thing he talks about more is that Bentley of his!”

“Speaking of, well, the Bentley,” Crowley interjected, “S’always room for you.”

“Thanks, love.”

“He is _trying_ to ask,” Aziraphale clarified, glaring at Crowley, “if there’s anywhere you’d like to go. We’d like to take you for a spin.”

“Oh, darling, it’d be a crime to say no.”

The only direction Freddie gives is “away from it all”. The headlights are bright when Crowley switches them on, like two stars plucked from the night sky. The three of them clamber in, and the Bentley lets out a little creak that sounds like a giggle, delighted to be so full of love and family.

The sounds of pavement passing beneath the wheels of the Bentley are more pleasing to all of them than celestial harmonies could ever be. They are guardians, composers, and admirers of the song of the Earth, and the songs of all its creatures, great and small.


	5. And on the Seventh Day (They Picnicked)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Candlelit dinner by the sea. Just you and me, we're meant to be.

**The House at Pooh Corner, A.A. Milne**

_"But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest a little boy and his Bear will always be playing."_

Famous is the calm before the storm. Lesser mentioned is the stillness when the storm passes over, when those caught in it climb out of the rubble and gaze upon their changed world. Familiar things are placed in new positions by a greater, uncontrollable power. Spectacular and fear-inducing, it is terrific in both the modern and archaic sense.

The world was quiet. It was hard to imagine that, just a few hours before, Aziraphale and Crowley had deceived both Heaven and Hell in what was probably the riskiest trick in the history books of the universe to date.

They were standing at the lake in St. James’ Park after lunch at the Ritz, gazing at the ducks as they glided across the still water. V-shaped wakes fanned out behind those streamlined bodies. He smiled as he saw a cluster of ducklings, brown with splashes of yellow, swim past, led by their mother. She was the colour of malt, her beak orange and brown. Like a half-unwrapped chocolate orange, Aziraphale thought.

He turned to get Crowley’s attention but caught the demon already looking at him, his grin even sillier than usual.

“Do I have something on my face?”

“Nah.” Crowley waved his hand dismissively. “Just…”

“What?”

Crowley flushed. He broke eye contact, suddenly finding immense interest in the different rocks making up the gravel path. “S’nice to...” He cleared his throat. “Nicetolookat. Your face. S’happy.”

Aziraphale’s gaze darted around the park, trying to find something that would let him avoid replying as he stammered, “Well – I mean – you see, lunch at the Ritz…” He managed an embarrassed smile. “It never disappoints.” _Because we’re together._

Crowley tried to repress the smile dancing on his lips and adjusted his sunglasses. “Maybe s’because eating there’s all you think about. Should’ve opened your bookshop next to it, I think.”

“Erm… Crowley?”

“Yeah, Angel?”

“Well… that’s the problem. Do you really think I’m still an angel?”

Crowley paused. “D’you want to be?”

“If I say no?”

No hesitation. “Then you don’t have to be. We’re playing in a league of our own now.”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to do with this newfound freedom. For so much of his life, he had been happy – no, not _happy_ , but at least content. Finding security in the darkness behind the blindfold of duty. There had been something pleasant about knowing exactly who he was: an angel, a helping hand, bringer of virtue and love to those searching for guidance. But now, the jigsaw of Aziraphale’s identity had been shaken up. He’d lost more than a few pieces along the way and had some new ones without a place yet. Aziraphale couldn’t be sure that putting them all together would yield a complete picture.

Armageddon had forced the weight of six thousand years of existence between his joints and into his bones. Aziraphale’s mind was wrung out, head heavy with unsteady thoughts which refused to settle on one thing. His neck was aching.

“And if I say yes?”

“Then you’d still be my angel. S’a new world. Nothing you can’t be. And you’d, you’d the _best_ angel.”

“Thank you, dear.” Aziraphale’s breath was shaky as he gave him a relieved smile. “I suppose I will. Keep being an angel, that is.” Crowley said something under his breath. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Said doesn’t matter if you’re an angel or not, m’asking you to… to go on a picnic with me. Tonight. You said before. 1967.” He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and shuffled his feet. “Y’can say no if you want.”

“Yes.”

“Ah, don’t worry, s’fine that you don’t want–” His eyes went wide behind his glasses. “What d’you say?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, quieter this time, realising what he’d agreed to. He was faintly aware that he was positively glowing with delight, shoulders wiggling in excitement. Crowley was rooted to the ground like he’d turned into one of the trees in the park.

“I, um, think we should get to the Bentley.”

“So soon?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows were knit together in confusion.

“Traffic,” Crowley squeezed out, at a loss for more eloquent speech. “Bad.”

“It’s only dinner. We have plenty of time.” Aziraphale’s eyes brightened. “We could even walk!”

“Well, you’re not going to _walk_ all the way to the South Downs, are–” Crowley froze halfway through an exasperated hand wave and hung his head in shame. “Shit. S’meant to be a surprise,” he mumbled.

“Oh, _Crowley_.” Aziraphale took Crowley’s hands in his. “I’ve always wanted to visit with y–” He stopped in his tracks, eyes cast downwards, a small smile on his face. “Thank you. I’ve been meaning to go back.”

Crowley squirmed under the attention. Aziraphale smiled at him when he didn’t try to wrench his hands away. “Angel, we, we gotta go.” He let go of Crowley, who had turned a slightly concerning shade of strawberry.

Through some demonic intervention via online delivery service Deliveroo, the kitchen at the Ritz Carlton soon began preparations for a picnic lunch. The restaurant had never offered take-away, much less delivery. Its kitchen also didn’t specialise in making picnic-appropriate versions of its dishes. Nevertheless, the staff did not question the orders they received from higher powers.

The Ritz was a high-end establishment that prided itself on its dine-in experience and looked down on food delivery services. Crowley couldn’t have cared less – in fact, he was all for unlikely partnerships.

That day, a very confused Deliveroo driver showed up at the entrance to the Ritz.

• • • • •

“Crowley, you’re driving at double the speed limit!”

“I’ll drive at triple the limit if this traffic keeps up.”

“No! Wait, stop, you can’t just swerve into the emergency lane! It’s not for you to use!”

“Angel, this _is_ an emergency.” Crowley had planned a drive along one of Virginia Woolf’s favourite walking routes in South Downs National Park and – so help him, Somebody – he was going to make this Aziraphale’s favourite day in all six thousand years of being on Earth. He’d been planning this in his head for almost fifty years. God help anyone who had the slightest chance of making Crowley late.

Though they had reached the National Park, they hadn’t arrived at their destination within it – Cuckmere Haven. They had caught a glimpse of Woolf’s residence as they drove down from Swanborough. Crowley promised himself that he’d take Aziraphale there next time. He had pointed out small features of the route along the way, accompanying each with an anecdote. The time he’d chased Woolf’s Cocker-Spaniel, Pinka, for miles (he didn’t even catch it – it ran back to the house in the end). The time he had fallen asleep in the field next to the church, only to find out that he had been reported as a missing person when he woke up.

Aziraphale interjected with stories of his own. The time he had been there to perform a few miracles and ended up with baskets of food from the overly-friendly residents. The time he’d brought Oscar Wilde down for a holiday and had been unable to convince him to go outside, take a walk, and stop writing.

The Bentley came to a rest outside a coastguard cottage, expansive floodplains spread out before their eyes, at four in the afternoon. The cloudless summer sky was darkening to match the deep blue waves, which spilled out onto the shore like tea over the rim of a mug. The cliffs were the colour of soft white meringue – the type that pillowed on Aziraphale’s favorite lemon pie. The craggy edges made them look like someone had taken a perfect bite out of the side of the coast.

“Angel, stay in the car, would you? M’getting a delivery.”

“What sort of–” Crowley was already gone, leaving the engine running. The car door thumped shut behind him.

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped in a rather undignified fashion when he saw a person in a motorcycle racing down the road like the Devil was behind him. The rider skidded to a halt near Crowley and took his helmet off.

“Delivery?”

“If it’s under the name ‘Crowley’, yes.” The rider nodded, reached into his Deliveroo box and hauled out a large woven picnic basket, lined with red and black tartan fabric. Crowley took it from his hands When he turned to return to the Bentley, he caught Aziraphale frowning in a way that said _you know what you haven’t done_ , and swiveled back to the rider, grumbling to himself. “Thanks.”

“Have a safe trip!” Aziraphale waved at the rider from the Bentley, who hesitantly waved back as he mounted his motorcycle again.

Something about Crowley’s gait as he walked back, swaying his hips and swinging the basket in his right hand, made Aziraphale think that he had done this before. The engine of the Bentley hummed in recognition.

Crowley swung himself into the driver’s seat after he had made sure that the picnic basket was secure in the back seat. “Before you tell me off, I tipped him fifty pounds when I placed the order.”

Aziraphale shot him an approving smile. “That’s very–”

“Don’t. M’not.” Crowley sighed. “Buckle up, Angel.” Aziraphale barely had time to register his words before he was pushed right back in his seat, a yelp caught in his throat as the Bentley raced off across the grass and up the massive hill.

When, after an eternity, his heart rate settled, Aziraphale sputtered, “I thought you said we were walking!”

“No, I said we’d be following the route of someone’s walk,” Crowley cackled. He saw Aziraphale pout out of the corner of his eye and slowed down. Marginally. Behind them, the grass that had been crushed beneath the Bentley’s wheels returned to its upright position, a little healthier thanks to an angelic blessing and just a little demonic assistance.

They stopped near the top of the cliff and the colour gradually returned to Aziraphale’s face. He felt like he’d just run a marathon. “I don’t even know why I even get in your car sometimes.”

“S’cause you like it.”

“I do not!” Aziraphale harrumphed. He didn’t have to look to know that Crowley had a shit-eating grin on his face. He was about to emphasise that he, most certainly, did _not_ like it, when Crowley spoke.

“Let me get the door for you.” Aziraphale’s objection died in his throat at the atypically romantic gallant gesture. Crowley reached into the back seat to get the picnic basket, which just fit through the gap between their two seats. He stepped out, and the door closed behind him with a soft click. If Aziraphale hadn’t been paying attention, it would’ve sounded like a miracle had just occurred. “After you.” The door opened on his left, and he relished the feeling of the cool breeze on his face, taking Crowley’s outstretched hand, the corners of his lips quirked upwards.

They trod gently on the grass until they reached the top of the cliff, where Crowley set down the picnic basket. As Crowley took out the picnic blanket, Aziraphale caught a glimpse of some tea lights tucked in amongst takeaway containers, and was hit by the scent of familiar food.

Crowley laid out the blanket with a sweeping wave. He picked up the little candles and, one by one, set them around its perimeter. “Shall we, angel?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale breathed, “Oh, _yes_.”

They sat down beside each other on the red and black check, Crowley on the left, Aziraphale on the right, and wasted no time reaching into the picnic basket. It was a miracle that nothing inside had broken or spilled; desserts immaculate, sauces still steaming and contained. Rich golden rays of light, tinted with orange and red, lingered in the sky as the sun melted into the waves.

Aziraphale couldn’t focus on the vibrant palette on the canvas of the sky as the sun set, not when Crowley had removed his sunglasses to see the scenery better. The golden sun bleeding orange across the sky paled in comparison to Crowley’s eyes, gleaming like two gemstones. For him, those warm eyes held the promise of brighter days to come, when the sun would shine even more radiantly.

Two champagne flutes and a bottle of Rosé that matched the slowly reddening sky. “To tomorrow,” Aziraphale said.

“To tomorrow.” The clink of the glass rang out like a meditation bell; the silence was comfortable. Crowley waved his hand and the wicks on the tea lights caught flame one by one, shining like little stars. His hair was a darker red in the candlelight – russet, maroon, the colour of Cabernet Sauvignon. There was no more wind to stir up the sea; the waves breaking softly against the shore seemed to say _hush, hush_ , _hush_ to the rest of the world.

From the basket, Crowley produced small, semi-stolen plates of Ritz china carrying food that he spread out like a buffet on the blanket. Tomato and basil bruschetta. Mini lobster ravioli with carrot and cardamom. Small fillets of sole served with leeks, cauliflower and caviar. Roast lamb and turnips.

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, beaming. “This is from the Ritz!”

Crowley offered him a fork and napkin. “Look, I know we already had lunch there but–”

“Hush now. I love it.” His eyes softened as he watched Crowley try and fail to conceal his relief. Despite Crowley’s best efforts, a smile – not a smirk, genuine and unembarrassed – spread across his face and lit up his eyes like the dawn had come early and the stars had forgotten to retreat.

Now that no disaster loomed over their heads, their talk could turn to trivial things. Aziraphale had the feeling that this was the way it was meant to be. Just the two of them, sitting next to each other, in their own little pocket of the universe. The home they had found in each other.

No longer fighting against the world, but together despite it.

He ate. Crowley watched. Aziraphale found comfort in that unchanging routine.

“Angel?”

“Mm?”

“I brought dessert?” Crowley’s statement came out as an apologetic question, like he was scared that Aziraphale would say no. From the picnic basket, which truly seemed bottomless, he retrieved two abducted Ritz dessert plates.

Aziraphale gasped. “Mini crêpes Suzette? _And_ that apple tarte Bourdaloue I’ve been meaning to try for so long? Oh, _Crowley_ , you spoil me.”

Said demon made a sound like he had choked on the praise.

This time, instead of simply observing, Crowley stole a bite of the tarte Bourdaloue, savouring the sweet taste of apple and pear. Aziraphale hadn’t taken him for someone with a sweet tooth. Or a sweet fang. The crêpes were somehow still warm, though, and he was torn between watching Crowley and letting them cool.

The crêpes won.

Their meal completed, Aziraphale wiped his mouth with a napkin, deep in thought. He was swirling his champagne absent-mindedly when Crowley pointed up at the sky, which was as devoid of sunlight as the plates of food. Like a black curtain ready to draw back and reveal the next act of their lives.

“See that?” Crowley circled his finger, “S’the Big Dipper.” He traced down the curve of the handle, then further down and to the left. “And that,” he whispered, “is [Libra](http://astrologyk.com/img/zodiac/constellations/wall/libra.jpg).”

“One of yours?” Aziraphale inquired tentatively.

“One of my first constellations.” Crowley reclined, one leg over the other, basking in the moonlight. He pointed his finger at one of the brighter stars in the constellation. “Y’know, the Earth is a Libra.”

“I hear that Libras love a good party.” Aziraphale set his champagne aside and lay down next to him, admiring the patchwork of the heavens.

“Must be why it’s always five o’clock somewhere on Earth.”

“Theoretically, yes.” Aziraphale squinted as if he could thereby focus better through his light haze of drunkenness. “If you go by time zones, no.”

“I’ve been thwarted.” Crowley laughed, a crisp, clear sound that cut through the night and struck Aziraphale’s heart.

Aziraphale’s gaze wandered and fell upon familiar stars, scattered across the night sky like crystal tear drops. [_Ophiuchus_](https://matrixdisclosure-abe3.kxcdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/The-Thirteenth-Sign-Ophiuchus.jpg) roamed freely amongst its fellow stars, touching some constellation and looping around others.

The two of them were as free as those stars, Aziraphale thought, mirth glittering in his eyes. They could be part of anything, do anything, go anywhere. There wasn’t anyone they needed to be but themselves. He felt for Crowley’s hand, neatly manicured fingers slotting in between long, slender ones, their nails painted black. Warmth against skin chilled by the cool air. Aziraphale gave Crowley’s hand a gentle squeeze. _Remember?_

He followed Aziraphale’s eyes up to the Serpent Holder's constellation and squeezed his hand back. _I do._

Aziraphale saw the edges of [_Auriga_](https://astrologyking.com/wp-content/uploads/auriga-constellation.jpg), the Charioteer, proud and domineering, fading from the summer sky, like Crowley and the Bentley disappearing from sight as they turned the corner from the bookshop. He remembered a charismatic performer and his passionate music, and smiled.

They were silent, hands interlocked like they were scared that they might get lost in the stars.

It was the seventh day of the seventh month. Above them, many East Asian cultures say, [two lovers in the stars were meeting](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/b2/f9/73/b2f973fab7012abec3f79d3c3118d8bc--cygnus-constellation-vegas-star.jpg). Altair, a lowly cowherd who played beautiful music in the light of the moon, and the heavenly princess, Vega, fell in love. It was forbidden, as relationships between Above and Below often are, so she met him in secret each night.

But they were spied upon, discovered, and Vega was dragged away. Altair chased her all the way to the stars but was unable to cross the Milky Way, a stellar river. They knelt there on opposite banks, weeping longing tears. In sight of each other, but a whole galaxy apart.

The Ruler of the Heavens, however, saw them and took pity, creating a bridge for them to meet once each year.

They were meant to be, the same way that “once upon a time” was meant to be with “happily ever after”. And so it was, on this seventh day, after what seemed an eternity of tireless pining, that they rested.

Aziraphale broke the silence, sitting up. “See that bright star wedged between Cygnus and Hercules?” A nod from Crowley as he sat back up too. “That’s [_Lyra_](https://miro.medium.com/max/2668/1*3uFmFrVCdipFuKht4KemJQ.png).”

“Doesn’t look very part of anything, does it?”

“Not between those two huge constellations,” Aziraphale agreed. “But the little thing’s shining brilliantly anyway, isn’t it? Like it’s…”

“On its own side,” Crowley finished, golden eyes staring intently at Aziraphale. Their faces were inches apart, and Aziraphale thought he would discorporate if his heart beat any faster. He felt Crowley’s hot breath on his skin, shivered, and almost forgot how to breathe himself. “May I?”

Aziraphale was thankful for the liquid courage in his bloodstream that melted the chains he had once placed on his own love, fearful that it would overwhelm him. Now, he welcomed the emotions as they flooded his heart and summoned fiery courage to his mind. Crowley’s head was cocked _just_ so. He was perfect.

Aziraphale – burning with love like the blade he had given away long ago, rid of the rules he had imposed on himself, free at last – took Crowley’s face in his tender hands and pressed a kiss to his lips.

It felt like slipping inside somewhere safe from a storm and the rich pleasure of a secret arrangement: turning around to taps on the shoulder, hoping to see a black-clad figure. Like a second chance at life, wishing for encores, and thrilling sparks with an accidental brush of the hand. Like the sweetness of tartan shortbread tins and long, quiet car rides and _we can go off together!_

It was a kiss six thousand years overdue, and they paid his debt in full, plus interest.

Aziraphale pulled away from Crowley, breathing heavily, a short three-word phrase suspended between their lips like a silk thread. Their faces were flushed red. “Sorry,” he reflexively said, eyes downcast.

“Don’t be,” Crowley whispered back, and closed the gap between them again, the taste of dessert still sweet on his lips. There was a hint of pear. Aziraphale liked pears.

But he could only think of how Crowley tasted of apples.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading to the end. I hope you enjoyed it, and would love to know how you felt in the comments below!
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr!](https://silent--sonata.tumblr.com/)  
> [Chat to me on Discord!](https://discord.gg/pTcajxx)  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the 2019 Good Omens Big Bang, an event filled with amazing people and even more amazing fanworks.
> 
> A huge thank you to [Euny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euny_Sloane/pseuds/Euny_Sloane) and [Greg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scmnz/pseuds/Scmnz) for being my betas – you guys are the best! This would be an entirely different story without you.
> 
> The wonderful [BabelGhoti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabelGhoti/pseuds/BabelGhoti) is my lovely artist and has podficced this story. Her voice is absolutely enchanting – go and check it out!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] No Matter How the Stars Align (They Make Me Think of You) - selected chapters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22291075) by [BabelGhoti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabelGhoti/pseuds/BabelGhoti)




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